(1965 / Abor, Volta Region, Ghana)

Imagine

imagine being torn, folded, packed, bagged,
transported, exported, then labeled, toxic waste
then advertised, an unacceptable commodity
imported by mistake.

imagine all that and the blues and the jazz
caught me thinking, humming, musing
swaying my head like a slave ship
and the souls of those burned in the fight called

the Call came like a dreaded disease
into my pores possessing my being
conjuring the past into the present
calling my mute blood to rebel
to protest the taste of iron in my mouth

tell them, we cannot suppress our passion
mute strong voices of our bruised souls
nor bury the anger in our lamentations
we shall walk the streets with our warrior drums
we shall face the Evening with thundering feet
till the church tolls the bell and soldiers the last bugle note
to the death, that stirs the thicket of our peace

imagine being torn, folded, packed, bagged,
transported, exported, and then labeled, a toxic waste
then advertised, an unacceptable commodity
imported by mistake

User Rating: 1,5 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

This has its moments, but it tries too hard, I think.